Murder Takes the High Road(10)
It wasn’t that I was still in love with Trevor. In fact, I was close to disliking him. Not in a he-done-me-wrong way, but more how-did-I-never-notice-what-a-jerk-he-was way. And yet dislike was not indifference. I wanted indifference.
How long before I was comfortably indifferent to him? To both of them?
Was this trip going to be good for achieving that goal? Or was it going to be detrimental? If I was going forward with the tour, and it appeared I was, I didn’t want to spend it distracted by thoughts of Trevor. Not even negative thoughts.
I went back to watching the planes. From where I sat, Glasgow Airport looked like a small airport, but it was the second busiest in Scotland. I watched streams of people flooding in and out, the constant arrival and departure of shuttle buses and cars.
The Matsukados appeared, clutching plastic bags and neck pillows and water bottles.
“Nineteen, twenty,” Yvonne informed them—and the rest of us. “And there’s Alison and Hamish. Where is twenty-one?”
“Where is twenty-one what?” Jim asked, bewildered. Laurel ushered him on.
Yvonne turned in her seat to stare at me. “Where is twenty-one?” she repeated.
“He was still sleeping when I went down to breakfast.”
Her eyes widened in consternation.
Alison boarded, began her headcount and was informed by Yvonne that I had callously left my roommate languishing while I gorged myself on scrambled eggs and sausages. Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way, but there was definitely a witness-for-the-prosecution tone to her update.
Alison looked alarmed and retreated, vanishing inside the hotel. She returned a short time later and held a brief conference with Hamish.
Four minutes later John burst out of the hotel, dragging his suitcase so fast I’m surprised its wheels didn’t catch fire.
Hamish climbed down to intercept, taking charge of the suitcase. John’s brown hair stood up in wet spikes and he looked wild-eyed and desperate as he clambered onto the bus.
The rest of us gave him a loud round of applause. His tanned complexion turned darker still.
When the claps and hoots had died down Alison said over the bus intercom, “Everybody, this is John Knight from San Diego, California. John flew in late last night just to be here with us on our Tour to Die For. We’re so glad he could make it.”
John raised a hand in greeting. “Hi there!” he said curtly. He directed a death stare my way as he passed, staggering down the aisle to the first empty seat way in the back.
I felt a twinge of guilt. I probably should have made sure he was awake before I’d left, but he was as capable as I was of setting an alarm. He was not my responsibility.
Hamish returned to his place at the helm—I hoped I was imagining that he seemed to be feeling his way up the stairs and behind the wheel—and the bus eventually rumbled into life.
More cheers from the Tour to Die For crowd. They were certainly an enthusiastic lot.
But even I felt a flicker of excitement as we pulled out of the parking area and onto the main road. I was here. The dream was now reality. I was in Scotland. The land of my forefathers. And foremothers. The land of brawny men in kilts, historic castles, Robert Burns, whisky, bagpipes, shaggy ponies, shaggy cattle, shaggy dogs and shaggy stories. Did I mention the brawny men in kilts?
Alison fiddled with the PA system’s mic. “Can everyone hear me?”
This met with applause. Was there anything this crowd didn’t love?
“We’re sticking closely to the itinerary today. Our plan is to drive north by way of the A9 past Stirling and Perth...”
From the seat behind me I could hear Edie saying, “Yes, it was a romantic way to end the series, but there was just so much more that could have been explored. Especially once Rachel and Michael got together.”
“It wasn’t only about the characters,” agreed Bertie. “Vanessa wanted to do the standalones.”
Across the aisle, Daya—the English lady from Devon—chimed in. “I prefer the standalones. I was bored with the Inspector MacKinnon books.”
“Were you?” Bertie sounded scandalized.
“MacKinnon was such a stuffy, self-important bore. I never believed in that relationship. Not for an instant. I don’t think Vanessa has much of a feel for romance.”
“N-not much of a feel for romance?” gasped Edie.
“No,” Daya said. “I think she prefers writing about sex and violence, don’t you? I don’t believe she’s ever had an actual relationship. Not from what I’ve read about her. She never married. In any case, you couldn’t write about the murder of children if you were in the least bit squeamish—if you want my honest opinion.”
It appeared Edie and Bertie did not, and the conversation behind me died a quick and chilly death. Working in a library, I was familiar with the various complaints about the hugely popular Inspector MacKinnon series. I could have told the sisters you can’t please all the people all the time. I very much doubted that Dame Vanessa, safe in her very own Scotland yard, spent much time crying herself to sleep over people who didn’t love Chief Inspector Rachel MacKinnon.
I arranged my neck pillow more comfortably and thought about putting my earbuds in. Alison was still explaining whatever there was left to explain about the day ahead. Reflected in the inside flat mirror I could see Rose whispering to the Kramers. They threw startled looks at Alison, who was still chirping away.